


Coda

by willowoftheriver



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: AU, Brotherhood, Family, Gen, Kink Meme, Prompt Fill, Psychological Trauma, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowoftheriver/pseuds/willowoftheriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake is the Joker's brother, and the last twist of Talia's slow knife between Bruce's bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on TDKR Kink Meme: "Well, between Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Heath Ledger there's a big similarity physically speaking . So maybe a fic where the Joker is Blake's big brother and the Joker escaped of where he was but was extremely badly treated/tortured etc , so Blake plans on betraying at the last moment Batman as a revenge for putting him in the prison in first place ? Also , Blake's plan is successful ?"

John appears in the doorway, a slender silhouette against the chaos just beyond. He stands there, held tilted, eyes wandering, fingers twitching at his sides. His hair’s come somewhat undone from the severe style it was in earlier and he’s not wearing the GCPD jacket anymore, just form fitting black that clashes with his skin and makes him too pale.

Slowly, his lips pull up at the edges, a hint of a smile, and Bruce can’t tell whether it’s directed at him or Bane but that doesn’t even matter because it shouldn’t be on his face in the first place. He shouldn’t even be here, and he certainly shouldn’t be calm, almost _languid_ , at the sight he’s been presented with.

He finally steps forward into the room, soles of his shoes crunching through debris. He makes no move to help him or negotiate with Bane, and Bane doesn’t attack or question his presence.

And all Bruce can do is close his eyes because in that second he _knows_.

“I was watching that night, in the sewers,” Blake says as he stops a short distance in front of him. “I never thought I could see you as broken as you were, lying there. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“Blake, you’re—no. How can you be one of them? How—?” First Miranda, _Talia_ , and now Blake, Blake who he’d actually thought he’d understood, who was so _similar_ to him. He’d been genuine and well meaning, struggling to be decent in an indecent time, to find something worthwhile amongst the dregs of the city.

How could this possibly be true?

“I’m not one of them,” he says, terse. “I don’t belong to the League of Shadows. I’m not like Talia. Almost everything you know about me is true.”

He chokes back a laugh at that. “I thought you _cared_.”

“I do,” he insists. “I do. Not about this city, but those kids, the ones unfortunate enough to be born here, like me—I care about them. I tried to get them off the island, but they wouldn’t let them out. They blew up the bridge. We’re all in this together now.”

“You’re willing to let all of them die just to destroy Gotham?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly, and for a second, as the wound in his side pulses with fresh pain, Bruce can’t even breathe. “But, it’s not about Gotham. Not really. I don’t care about the corruption or the crime or whether it’s unsalvageable or not.”

“Then _why_? Why are you going along with this?”

“You. It’s _all_ been because of you. When I joined the police, it was because I knew that Gordon had worked closely with the Batman and I thought that maybe he knew who he really was.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. I had to say _something_. But no one’s that good. It’s true I knew you weren’t as happy as you let on but I was just never able to equate you with him. Neither was Gordon, as I found out. He was just as clueless as me. But eventually, I did find someone who knew. I found Talia.”

Slowly, John lowers himself, elbows on knees, his face only a scant few inches from Bruce’s.

“Talia had a plan, Bruce. To destroy you, bit by bit, until there was nothing left. And she wanted me to be the final part, the last twist of the knife. How could I possibly say no?”

He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help but stare into his eyes. Maybe he hopes he’ll find something like insanity there, something ( _anything_ ) that would explain this. They’re brown and clear, maybe a bit too bright, but perfectly lucid, perfectly rational.

“What did I ever do to you?” he rasps. “What would make you willing to sacrifice so many lives?”

His expression twists at that, just for an instant, into something horrible and dangerous, the mask cracking to show the rage underneath. His hands fly up and clamp down on the sides of his head, dragging him in, and when he speaks, he can feel his breath.

“Look at my face,” he demands. “Look. At. Me.”

He does, though he has no idea what he’s supposed to find there. It’s the same face he’s seen before; handsome, though maybe not as much as he’d once thought, not with that expression and those lips, almost too red, like a bloody slash across his face.

“Don’t I look familiar?” His nails dig in, grip tightening, even as he starts to smile, an ugly, wide, forced thing that makes his mouth look too big for his face, and somehow, _somehow_ , it strikes a cord deep inside him, bringing with it a disgust and a dread he hasn’t felt in years.

But it can’t be.

It _can’t be_.

He meets his eyes again, his own wide with denial, and he nods, the smile vanishing as quickly as it came.

“He was all I had,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “And you took him away from me.”

“He was—” And he almost can’t complete the sentence, not as the memories rush to the surface from where he’s spent years trying to bury them, barely able to stand them. “—a monster. What he did—he killed so many people—”

“I _know,_ ” he cuts in, and for the first time, he sees a flicker of something, maybe doubt or remorse or shame. “What he did was—wrong. But he’s my _brother_. And I spent eight years not knowing what was happening to him in that hellhole—whether he was okay, or even _alive_. I thought I’d never know, that he’d rot there forever and I’d never see him again. I was just a teenager and—I was . . . so alone, and afraid. The only thing left for me was the thought that one day, I’d find you. _Hurt_ you, just as much as you’d hurt me. Talia made that possible. That and so much more.”

He thinks, fleetingly, of Bane on the steps of Blackgate. Funny how he’d never stopped long enough to think about whether the same thing had happened at Arkham.

“She gave him back to me . . .” His fingers contract, palms sweaty against the exposed skin of his face. “. . . and any doubts I might’ve had went away when I had to watch him writhe and sweat and suffer just to get over the drugs they forced down his throat to keep him stupid and compliant.”

He’s trembling with his anger and his hate, but he inhales and steadies himself, standing up and taking a step back. He studies him for a second, eyes boring into his, and finally continues. “You know . . . it really was true, what I said. I admired you once. Before what happened with my brother. But then, afterward . . . I realized. You’re not any better than any of them. You’re a freak, and your being here is just an open invitation for more to come. Before you, my brother was content with eking out our existence in the Narrows and the worst this city had to deal with was the Mob. But now . . .” He throws his arms out, encompassing everything around them. “Just look at what you’ve brought down on us.”

Bruce stares at him, wordless. Hollow.

And for the first time, he thinks he truly understands what Bane meant about there being no despair without hope.

John had been his hope for the future of the city, of Batman . . .

But now . . . now there’s _nothing_.

“We both know I have to kill you now,” Bane is saying, somewhere far away, and little as the words register with him, Bruce can still hear the pleasure in his voice, the amusement. Bane knows that he understands now, too.

“You’ll just have to _imagine_ the fire . . .”

Bruce doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Not when Bane’s hands descend on him, or when the explosion comes in the next instant, deafening and too close.

Then Bane is gone, both he and John heaps on the floor, unconscious or dead, thrown violently from the force of the missiles impacting between them. Bruce’s ears ring and his vision spins, but Selina is quickly on him, pulling him up and away.

Bruce follows her, because he knows there’s still one last thing to do.

But he can’t even remember what he’s fighting for anymore.

All he has left is despair.


End file.
